


I Don't Ever Want To Dream

by Seraphymnal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Delusions, Hallucinating Sam Winchester, Hallucinations, Hurt Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychosis, Psychotic Disorder, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester-centric, Schizoaffective Disorder, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, and the comfort wont be for a while, except way more hurt, graphic depictions of self-harm, psychotic sam winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-10-31 17:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17853608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seraphymnal/pseuds/Seraphymnal
Summary: At age 16, Sam started noticing something off; what began as shadows at the corner of his eye and whispers of his name grew into something unignorable, something that worried him. With every passing year, it just seemed to get worse. He wasn't sure what it was--a curse, maybe? Some other supernatural phenomenon?--but he knew one thing for sure; he wouldn't drag anyone else down with his problems.





	1. Beginning

It started gradually.

It wasn’t like it was overly abnormal for one to see shadows moving around out of the corner of your eye; at least, Sam didn’t _think_ it was. And, hey, at the ripe age of 16, there were a lot of weird things going on with Sam.

Then came the voices. They started out small as well—just the occasional, distant call of his name that had no real source. Nothing he couldn’t learn to ignore. But the source-less voices grew after a few months, going from barely-there to nearly impossible to ignore, words yelled or whispered directly into his ear. It was often trivial things; they’d just comment on Sam’s surroundings, sometimes say rude things about passerby’s or the one or two friends Sam’d managed to make in whatever school Dad had enrolled him in at the moment, and, on occasion, they would vocalize things that Sam didn’t want to hear. Like how his school pals were just talking to him out of pity. Or how he was dragging his father and brother down, being a burden and making their lives more difficult than necessary.

It wasn’t until, one day, upon running into someone and getting a ‘Fuck off, freak,’ in response to his apology, that he began to worry. Because what he heard then wasn’t good. It wasn’t _normal_.

 _‘You could kick his ass, you know. You’ve been trained well enough. Can even hold your own against Dean. Do it. Turn around, and **hit him.** '_ 

Now, Sam didn’t consider himself a pacifist by any means, but he certainly wasn’t one to start shit in the middle of school. Sure, he’d had fleeting thoughts of violence against those who bothered him— _everyone_ did. That was _normal._ What wasn’t normal was the way that thought was delivered; a low whisper, pressed against his ear like the words of a lover, so sweet despite what they wanted him to do.

Sam wasn’t proud to say that the shock of that voice sent him stumbling over his own feet, falling to the floor and spilling his schoolbooks everywhere.

\------------------

He decided it best to talk to someone.

Obviously, he couldn’t bring this up to his father; he couldn’t bring _anything_ up to his father, usually. But Dean...Dean was a different story. Dean would actually listen. At least, Sam hoped he would.

“Hey, uh, Dean?” His brother looked over from where he was sat on the bed he’d claimed in their small room. He’d been channel surfing for the past hour before Sam’d gotten up the nerve to say something.

“Yeah?”

Sam swallowed hard. Well, here goes nothing. “Do you ever...I dunno. Hear stuff? Like, stuff other people don’t hear?”

Dean cocked a brow, traces of that familiar smirk on his lips. “What, don’t tell me you’re suddenly a psychic or something.”

Sam frowned. “No, I—“ Cutting himself off, he sighed. “This is serious, okay?” Dean’s face didn’t change, but his shoulders straightened a bit. “I’ve been. I’ve been hearing things that I don’t think are...real? Does that make sense?”

“...No,” Dean replied slowly. “But keep goin’.”

“Stuff that I don’t wanna hear,” Sam forged on. “Bad stuff.”

Finally, that smirk disappeared. “What kinda stuff?”

Sam’s eye skirted away from Dean’s, nerves bubbling in his stomach. “Like...like how I’m a bad person. And how I should—“ he lowered his voice— “how I should hurt people.” At Dean’s look, he quickly amended, “Only once! Only once that last one happened. But—but it makes me...nervous.” He licked his lips anxiously, awaiting Dean’s response.

After a long silence, Dean turned back to the TV. “‘S probably nothing,” he replied, but the casualness of his tone sounded forced.

Sam’s brows furrowed. “But—“

“It’s _fine_ , Sam,” Dean cut him off, voice harder now, but he still wasn’t looking at Sam. “It’s probably just some... _teenage_ thing. Just...” he glanced over at Sam, “don’t bring it up to dad, ‘kay? Don’t wanna bother him with somethin’ stupid like that.” The last part was tacked on with a grin, Dean’s voice teasing but firm, and Sam figured that was the end of the conversation, whether he wanted it to be or not.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, mostly to himself. “You’re probably right.”

\----------------

When Sam woke up one morning a few months later to find a shadowy figure at the foot of his bed, he figured it wasn’t so fine.

With a startled yelp, Sam jerked back, slamming his head hard against the headboard. “Owwww.”

Dean awoke with a snort, momentarily disoriented but quickly becoming cognizant, propping himself up on an arms and looking over at Sam in alarm. “Sammy?”

Sam’s eyes darted from Dean to the... _thing_ at the end of his bed. The edges of the thing seemed to be fizzling, almost, and it’s shape wasn’t completely consistent; it was about the size of a man, but the width of it was constantly fluctuating. However, when he looked back to Dean, he saw nothing on his brother’s face to indicate that Dean saw the intruder. In fact, the only thing on Dean’s face was a hint of annoyance, growing the longer Sam remained silent. “Uhm.”

Dean’s lips pinched together. “Uhm?” His voice was all forced-patience.

Sam’s eyes darted quickly to the thing one last time before settling back on his older brother. Right. Apparently only Sam could see it. “Nothing. Just a—a bad dream, that’s all.”

Dean huffed, rolling his eyes and flopping back down onto his bed. “ _Bad dream_. Right, okay.” He sounded placated though.

Sam looked back to the vaporous thing. It didn’t have any defining features, but Sam had the sense it was staring at him. His heart was in his larynx, and he cleared his throat quietly. There were waves of energy emanating from the creature, thick and black and wispy, so thick Sam could almost _feel_ them. Swallowing back his fear, Sam whispered, practically inaudible, “You’re not real.” The thing didn’t move. It made no noise, but Sam had the sense it was _laughing_ at him.

What a wonderful start to his day.

\------------------

Sam usually used his study hall to do homework or work on school projects. This time around, he’d still be doing research, but his time with the library computer would be extracurricular.

He stared at the empty search bar for a long while, unsure of what to type. He’d already exhausted the few lore books they had with them, and he’d not found anything useful in any libraries, school or otherwise. He was stumped on where even to start with something so expansive as the internet. Eventually, he settled on what was perhaps the most juvenile phrase he’d ever searched.

“Supernatural creature that only I can see”

When that turned up only lists of different sorts of creatures—lists he’d extensively researched—he tweaked the search.

“ **Monster** that only I can see”

That search was even _less_ helpful than the first. Okay then, one last try.

“Supernatural creature that only appears to one person”

Nothing. Sam let out a long sigh. That left him with any knowledge he had in his head. He racked his brain.

A spell, maybe? He wasn’t aware he’d pissed off any witches (then again, when /weren’t/ witches pissed off at the Winchester’s), and it most certainly wasn’t a hex bag of any kind.

A fairy, then? They were tricky little bastards, and he wouldn’t put it past one to mess with him. Still, what would have provoked it? There hadn’t been an abundance of hunts, and none that involved the fae; it was the usual werewolf and ghost jobs, occasionally a vampire or two or ten, nothing outside of the usual. He couldn’t think of a damn reason why anyone—or any _thing_ —would want to do something so odd to him. Okay. Back to base one. He deleted his last search.

“I see and hear things no one else can”

 _That_ turned up interesting results. Sam frowned, scrolling through pages and pages of results speaking of visual and auditory hallucinations. Of symptoms of psychosis. Of schizophrenia and the like. Sam couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of his throat. It sounded unsteady to his ears. He just...couldn’t believe it. For one, that he hadn’t thought of it sooner, smart as he was. For another, the idea that he might be... _crazy_. Sam winced. Okay, perhaps not the right term; certainly not the appropriate or kind one. Still. Still.

He shook his head. This was...unreal. There was no way he had whatever google was insinuating. No way in hell.

...And yet.

His mouse hovered over one of the results—the symptoms of schizophrenia— finger twitching hesitantly on the mouse before finally clicking on it.

Disorganized thoughts? No, no, Sam couldn’t see that in himself. He’d had periods of time where his thought pattern made him a bit confused and disoriented, but that was...well, perhaps not normal, but not a sign of a psychotic disorder. And delusions? Sam could laugh at that. Of course, he believed in things most people didn’t, but he’d _seen_ those things firsthand, had seen _other people_ see them. He shook his head, ready to close the browser and move on, when a stray thought gave him pause.

He had, occasionally, felt as though he was being watched. Okay, more than just occasionally. But wasn’t that feeling warranted? After experiencing everything he had, wasn’t a little paranoia expected?

Delusions of grandeur, now that was a laugh. Certainly he felt like a savior, but that came with the job. His role in life was to _save_ people, after all. He was born into it, born _for_ it, the same as how his birth set his mother’s fate. The same as he would die young, fighting for humanity, to help protect the unsuspecting masses. These facts were inherent, he’d known them for as long as he could remember.

...And perhaps that was the problem. The closer Sam examined these thoughts, the more they fell apart. One couldn’t possibly know how they would die, could they? Yet the thought did not budge, sewn tightly into the confines of his heart, part of him. Certainly that was at least _close_ to what the article was describing?

No. “No,” Sam murmured, needing to hear the assurance of his own voice. Again, louder this time. “No.” A few heads turned in his direction, but he barely noticed them, pushing away from the computer and getting to his feet. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this. /Any/ explication aside from that. He refused to believe he was in any way mentally unstable. He’d figure this out. Even if it meant sticking through it and waiting until it had run its course, he would get through it. Because he had to. Because that was who he was.

And he’d be damned if he burdened Dean or dad with his issues.

\-------------------

“ _College_ , Sam?” John yelled, waving Sam’s acceptance letter in his youngest son’s--now 19--face. It was the most Sam had seen of it; Dean had grabbed the mail before he could and, upon reading just who was sending Sam a letter, ripped the envelope open. It wasn’t long after that John had found out, which lead them to where they were now. “You want to leave us—leave your whole _life_ —for a damn _school?_ _"_  

“I’m not leaving my _life_ ,” Sam growled, practically baring his teeth at his father. “I’m leaving _yours_! I never _chose_ to live like this! You made me! I never had a damn choice.” He took a step closer to his father, stabbing a finger into his chest. “Well, _now_ I do. I’m a grown adult, and I chose to leave.”

John’s face was dark as a storm, eyes alight with fury. “You’re telling me you’re going to go out there and live on your own? You really think you’ll be able to fit in out there? To _survive_? After all you’ve seen, all you’ve been through?” He gave a bitter laugh. “No, Sam. You’ll never make it out there. Not without us.”

Something in Sam snapped. He took a step back, breathing hard out of sheer anger. “Fuck you.”

John has the gall to look surprised. “Excuse me?”

“Fuck you!” Sam felt unhinged; ready to tear out his hair and scream and cry and punch his father square in the face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the dark creature lurking in the corner, silently egging him on. “I don’t need your damn help! I’ve gone through so much worse without you!”

John scoffed. “Is that so? Like what, Sam? What terrible things have you gone through?”

Dean, who had been backed away from the them and watching the fight, took a step forward, arm out as if trying to calm a frightened animal. “Sammy—“ he began, tone cautionary, eyes nervous, like he still remembered that conversation from three years ago. Like he knew exactly what Sam wanted to say.

Sam pressed on heedless of his brother. “Oh, I don’t know, how about the fact that I’ve been seeing shit that no one else sees for years?! That I hear people talking to me who don’t exist!” He laughed a high, almost manic laugh, tears of frustration pricking at his eyes. If Sam could step back and look at himself, he would hardly recognize the man he was looking at; he was wild, shoulders shaking with repressed rage, unthinkingly saying anything and everything he could to drive the point home to his father, to _hurt_ John. “I’ve lived with having to hear about how I was ruining your lives, how you were all going to die—how _I_ was going to be the one to cause it—for three goddamn years without saying a word about it to you.”

John clearly hadn’t been expecting that. “What the hell are you going on about?”

“Oh, that’s the best part!” Sam informed him, tone mock-chipper. “I have no fucking idea what it is! I’ve lived like this for _three years_ , without any help from you or Dean or _anyone_ , and I don’t even know what causes it!” He shook his head, eyes flashing over to the dark creature and getting stuck on it. He didn’t know why, but he thought it was happy. Like it wanted Sam to unleash years of baggage into his father. “I don’t need you,” he finally muttered. “I’m going to Stanford, and I’m going to live my life with or without your support.”

John seemed to have recovered from his brief bout of confusion. “You walk out that door, Sam,” he began, “You walk out that door and you can never come back. Not _ever_.” His tone was firm, final.

A bolt of hurt shot through Sam’s chest. His own damn father would rather never see him again than see him leave the life he’d been forced into—to see him be happy. Still, he didn’t back down. “Fine,” he replied, voice going from heated to icy cold. With that, he turned and walked out the door, headed to the room he and Dean shared. Once there, he grabbed his suitcase and threw it on the bed before rummaging through his belongings. He was only going to pack what was really important to him.

He’d not noticed Dean following after him until the elder brother spoke. “Sam—“

Sam held up a hand. “Don’t,” he said, blinking rapidly down at his suitcase in an attempt to keep his tears at bay. It didn’t work very well; two tiny droplets fell onto the comforter. God, he was a mess. “I know what you’re going to say, and just—don’t.” 

Dean was quiet for a long moment, leaving Sam to packing and his own tumultuous thoughts. Then, finally, Dean spoke. “Have you really been dealing with... _that_ for all this time?”

Sam hadn’t expected that the be what Dean started with. “Yeah,” he breathed after a moment. “Yeah, Dean, I have.” Finished packing (he didn’t have many belongings to begin with), he pulled on the zipper to close the suitcase. “And I meant what I said.” Taking a deep, steeling breath, he turned to face his brother. Dean looked, for the first time in a long time, small and uncertain. “I did it without you two. I can do this without you, too.”

Dean’s shoulders sagged, whatever hope he had that Sam would change his mind dashed. “So this is really happening, then. You’re really leaving us.” Sam couldn’t help but wince. John had said the same thing, but it stung more coming from Dean. Dean, who, despite all his oddities and annoying traits, always cared for Sam and wanted the best for him.

“...Yeah,” he said eventually. His voice sounded choked, tears and guilt and uncertainty clogging his throat. “I am.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I have to, Dean. If I stay here, I might...I think I might die.” He didn’t need to go into detail about how certain he was that that was the case.

After a moment of silent staring, Dean nodded once, firmly. “Alright.” He didn’t sound much better than Sam, who was now hauling the suitcase off the bed and moving towards the door. Once next to Dean, the elder brother clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Good luck out there, Sammy,” he said, lips quirked in a small,forced smile. “We’ll see you soon.” He didn’t sound sure of that at all.

Unable to vocalize the myriad of things he wanted to say, Sam just nodded, closing his eyes and taking a calming breath before pulling away from Dean’s hold and walking out the door, suitcase in tow. He didn’t bother saying anything more to his father, knowing he’d never get a proper goodbye out of his him. As he walked down the road, sun slowly setting on the warm end of July night, he allowed himself a few more tears as the reality of the situation fully set it. He didn’t allow himself to regret it; didn’t even turn to look back at the hotel. He just continued forward, headed to the closest bus stop.

 _“You’re truly alone now,”_ someone whispered. Sam recognized it as the woman who spoke to him—whose voice sounded like a parody of what he thought his mother might sounded like. _“Is this enough for you? Do you finally see how little they care?”_ Sam walked faster, but it was hopeless—there was no outrunning the voice. “All alone. _"_ _No big brother to care for you. They won’t miss you at all. Why not finish the job? You know you should. The world would be better without you. There’s a train not too far from here.”_

“Shut up,” Sam muttered, refusing to even entertain what she was insinuating. He could do this. He could. He was 19 years old; it was more than time for him to fly from the nest. If it was without the support of his family, well, so be it. He’d gotten a full ride to Stanford, and he wasn’t about to let that opportunity pass him by, voices be damned.

Sam stood at the bus stop, leaning lightly against one of the poles that held up the little roof of the area. The bus should be there soon. He’d take it as far as he could get, and then he’d take another, until he was at his destination. Things would be better at school, Sam told himself. They had to be. Once he got there, he could relax. Once he got there, he could finally breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I just want to say a few things:  
> I am psychotic (schizoaffective disorder, if you want specifics), so I promise you I'm not going to try and turn Sam's psychosis into some horror movie trope, nor am I going to romanticize it. Sam Winchester is a character I relate heavily to, and I've wondered for a while now what it would be like were he to have a disorder similar to mine. Is this me pouring my emotions out via torturing Sam? Maybe. But, hey, coping mechanisms are important.  
> Secondly, this work is going to span all seasons. This chapter is obviously pre-season one. I'm going to try and get a little Stanford-era Sam into the next chapter, as well as the majority (if not all) of the first season. This is gonna be a long one, I can tell you that much.  
> Lastly; I'm planning, at the moment, to eventually turn this into a Sastiel fic. If that bothers you, feel free to turn back now, or even stick around a bit longer--after all, Cas doesn't come in for a while, and even when he does, its going to be a very slow-burn.  
> Anyway, thank you again for reading. Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Please let me know if I make any mistakes in my portrayal of psychosis, as I'm mostly going off of personal experience and some research I've done online (god bless mayo clinic).


	2. Stanford Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here’s some gratuitous Stanford-era Sammy.

Life at Stanford was everything Sam had imagined and more. It wasn’t long after arriving and being assigned to a dorm that he began to feel at home. He had a roommate who he hit it off with fairly quickly, and his classes—though some more boring than the others—were manageable at worst and genuinely enjoyable at best. He got a part-time job on campus, too, to bring in some extra money.

The best part by far, though, was the fact that the voices were dissipating.

Of course, they didn’t go away entirely. Sam really didn’t expect they would. Still, they weren’t around nearly as often, and when they were there, they weren’t nearly as intense. There were barely any occurrences of them trying to provoke him into violence, too, be it against others or himself. He still saw shadowy figures, but he’d grown so used to those that he barely even acknowledged them.

Things were going great. Up until the end of first semester, anyway.

With the end of the semester came finals, and with finals came a heaping helping of stress. Stress that, apparently, allowed his assailants to grow stronger. He remembered, vividly, being sat in front of his laptop (that he’d saved up for for the longest time), staring down at his essay for English 101 and gnawing at his lip hard enough that he tasted iron. He was good at English, he really was, but, for whatever reason, this specific paper was giving him trouble. He was in the middle of thinking on taking a break when the screaming began.

Sam jumped off his chair, hackles raised in an instant against the onslaught of anguished wails. Heart beating near out of his chest, he searched his dorm for the source. No dice. He peeked into the hallway of the dormitory, but he couldn’t see anyone out there who could be the cause, either. And, oddly enough, no one else seemed to notice. No one else had come out of their dorm rooms, and the few students who were walking in the hallway were continuing on as if nothing odd was happening. As if they couldn’t hear the screaming whatsoever.

Oh.

Sam’s shoulders slumped, heart dropping to his stomach, and he stepped back into his dorm and pulled the door closed quietly. There was still someone crying out—begging for help now—and Sam realized suddenly that those screams sounded remarkably like those of a woman who he and Dean and their father had just barely managed to save from a vengeful spirit over in Nevada. It was one of the last hunts Sam had been on before he’d left for Stanford, and he’d nearly mucked it up, too. He’d managed to unknowingly break the salt circle around the woman—just a small scuff, barely noticeable, but enough for a ghost to get through—as they were searching the house for a locket that held a picture of the woman’s late husband. He’d died of a heart attack, see; a stroke that occurred not long after he and his spouse had had a particularly heated argument. The woman—Kassidy, he recalled—had thought her husband was faking it for sympathy, which apparently wasn’t out of character for him. It wasn’t until he stopped breathing that she realized something was terribly wrong. Her husband seemed to think Kassidy had let him die on purpose, and was out to get her. Typical ghost case, really. But with Sam breaking the salt circle, the spirit was able to get to Kassidy. Sam was upstairs when he heard her cries for help, intermingled with pained screams, and he’d rushed downstairs, nearly tripping in his haste. His father had made it to her first, and he’d shot a few salt rounds at the ghost. Of course, because nothing could ever be that easy, not for them, that hardly deterred the ghost, and it continued to shove its hand into Kassidy’s chest.

Then Dean’d ran into the room, found locket in hand, and quickly threw it into the fireplace which they’d lit before beginning their search. The ghost flickered, groans echoing through the house, before melting into the floor, finally defeated.

Dad had chewed Sam’s ass out for his stupid mistake, but he hardly needed to; Sam was guilty enough, pissed at himself for messing up in such a rookie fashion. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for that. Evidently, the voices knew this, and were now using Kassidy’s voice against him. Sighing, Sam slumped down in his desk chair, eyes staring blankly at the paper in front of him. He hadn’t been able to get any more work done that night. Had barely been able to sleep.

It wasn’t until Sam found himself overwhelmed, holed up in a stall of one of the dorm’s restrooms, hands pressed roughly against his ears, trembling like a frightened child, so overwhelmed by the screams and insults being hurled his way, that he realized something was really wrong. Not until he’d scratched his wrist raw and bloody in an effort to distract himself from the figures hovering around him, taunting him, that he made an appointment with one of the university’s available therapists.

Her name was Dr. Doepki. She was very kind, and she listened patiently as Sam explained what he’d been going through. She nodded when he told her that it’d been happening for years now, but had never gotten this bad. Had pulled out a her DSM-5 and gone through symptoms with him, some matching so closely to what he was experiencing that it made his head spin.

“I don’t understand,” he’d said, voice small and lost. “Why would it just get so bad so suddenly.”

Dr. Doepki had given him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure you’ve been under a lot of stress lately, yes?” At Sam’s nod, she continued; “It is very common for symptoms of psychotic disorders to grow stronger during periods of intense emotion, stress being one of them. Also,” she gestured to him, “you’re the prime age for it to act up more. Some disorders—schizophrenia, for example—fully develop in one’s late teens to early 20’s.” Her smile turned reassuring. “You shouldn’t worry too much. It’s normal.”

Sam chuckled ruefully, eyes focused on the gaudy carpet under his feet. “Can’t say I believe _seeing things_ is normal.”

Dr. Doepki’s lips turned downwards in a small frown. “Sam,” she began slowly, “Have you ever considered medication?”

Sam’s head shot up at that. “What?”

The doctor nodded. “You could possibly benefit greatly from an antipsychotic. There are several to choose from, and if one doesn’t work we can try another.”

“Possibly,” Sam repeated quietly.

“Yes, there’s not guarantee they’d work for you, but—“

“Side effects?” Sam interrupted, voice suddenly firm. “What about the side effects?”

Doepki looked slightly surprised. “Oh. Well, constipation is fairly common, as well as sexual dysfunctions. Sleepiness could occur, or mild insomnia—“

Sam cut her off once more. “No thank you.”

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“I really don’t think I wanna risk taking some pill that might not even work for me,” Sam told her. “Not when there’s so many side effects.”

Slowly, Dr. Doepki nodded. “Alright. But, Sam, please, if it’s at all possible, make another appointment with me.” There was that kind smile again. “Just to talk. We can figure out healthy coping mechanisms and ways to keep the hallucinations at bay.”

After a moment of thought, Sam nodded. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

He saw her once every two weeks after that. They started with grounding methods; ways to keep him focused on the here and now, the real as opposed to the fake that his brain manufactured. Different coping mechanisms. The obligatory ‘how was your childhood?’ It was difficult, but she finally got Sam to open up about his father, and she frowned almost the entire time he explained their situation.

“That could leave a lot of emotional trauma,” she’d told him at one point. “Being forced on these...hunting trips, you said?”

“My dad loves me,” Sam said instead of answering.

“Of course,” Doepki said quickly. “I have no question that he does. However...the way he treated you at times was...unconventional to say the least.”

Sam couldn’t help but snort at that. “No shit.”

They’d talked about his unfounded beliefs as well.

“And why do you think you killed your mother?”

Sam scrubbed hard at his face, head aching from the jumps in logic his brain was attempting. “I didn’t—I didn’t kill her, necessarily. I just...I was born for her to die, if that makes any sense?”

Dr. Doepki hummed in understanding. “I think I know what you’re saying. But, tell me, Sam; does that make sense? That a child is born specifically for their mother to die? That one event directly set off the other?”

“I—“ Sam swallowed hard. “I don’t know. No? But...but also yes?” A sigh. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense when you say it, but in my head it…” he trailed off, brows furrowed, frowning at that awful carpet.

“Then can we agree that that is probably a delusion?” Dr. Doepki prompted.

After a moment, Sam slowly nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

A few sessions in, they started working on a diagnosis.

“Would you say you have disorganized thoughts?”

Sam didn’t reply for a long while, shot back to age 16 in his school library, glaring at a computer screen. “Uh. Maybe? Only sometimes though.”

“Alright.” The doctor continued down the list. “Do you ever find yourself repeating movements?”

Sam frowned. “I...don’t know? I guess maybe sometimes. But that—that doesn’t really sound like a symptom.”

“Do you know why you do repetitive movements?”

“Uh.” He licked his lips. “I just...have to? Like, no one is forcing me to, but I feel like I should.” He caught himself rolling his wrist then, and frowned down at his hand as though it had a mind of its own.

Dr. Doepki continued on. “Do you ever find yourself lacking motivation to do things? Even small things?”

That one was easy. “Yes,” replied Sam, almost confidently. “I—sometimes I can’t get out of bed at all. Not because I don’t want to, I just can’t.” He frowned, leaned in closer. “I’ve missed classes a few times because of that.”

Instead of being upset, Doepki just nodded. “That isn’t an uncommon feeling.”

Sam’s brows shot up. “Really?”

A hum. “You’d be surprised how many people—students and faculty—are at least somewhat mentally ill. Do you have periods of mania?”

Sam blinked rapidly, confused and caught off guard by the new question. “Uh—“

“Times when you feel almost high,” she explained, for which Sam was silently grateful. “Characterized by feeling indestructible, having erratic and often dangerous behaviors.”

Sam thought on that a moment. “Not really,” he said finally. “Maybe occasionally? But not enough that I’d call it a problem.”

She nodded. “Alright. How about periods of depression?”

Depression. Sam frowned; did he ever feel depressed? He guessed that lack of motivation could definitely be part of depression. And he did often feel like he was useless, or a burden, or a waste of time, or worthless, or—

“Yeah,” he replied. “Yeah, a lot, I think.”

Another nod. She closed her book, turning her eyes on him and setting her hands in her lap. “Alright, Sam. I think I can tentatively diagnose you.”

Sam swallowed nervously. “Ah. Alright. Hit me.”

“Schizoaffective disorder,” Dr. Doepki told him. At his confused look, she explained. “It’s like schizophrenia, but you have to have symptoms of a mood disorder—be it bipolar or depressive—to be diagnosed with it. You’d be the depressive side of that coin.”

Letting that sink in, Sam nodded slowly. “And you said that’s...tennitive. So I could possibly not have it.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I believe I’ll be able to tell more firmly the longer we meet together.”

“Okay.” Sam felt lighter, somehow. Like having a name for what was wrong with him helped. Like he wasn’t alone. “Uh. Thank you.”

“Of course.” She smiled. “I’ll see you in two weeks, okay?”

——————————

Three and a half years into his college career and his longtime friend, Brady, decided to introduce him to another friend of his at a frat party. Apparently she had a sociology class with Brady, and they’d hit it off pretty quickly. “I figured you two would get along too, considering you’re both huge dorks,” Brady explained, earning him a light shove to the shoulder.

What struck Sam first about Jess was the fact that she was absolutely beautiful. This wasn’t uncommon; a lot of college girls were stupidly attractive. Still, Sam hadn’t exactly gotten used to this, and he still felt a little sideswiped when he saw how breathtaking Jess was.

The second thing Sam noticed, was how sweet she was. “Hi,” she began, holding out a hand. “I’m Jessica Moore.” Sam took her hand awkwardly and gave it a firm shake.

“Sam,” he replied, giving a small, nervous smile. He’d still not quite found his footing when it came to talking to girls. Dean would laugh his ass off if he knew. “Uh, so you have sociology with Brady?” He asked, taking his hand back. Jessica nodded.

“Yeah,” Brady butted in, large grin on his face. “Jess and I bonded over how boring Stevenson is.”

Jess laughed quietly, nudging Brady gently. “Stop it. He can’t help it; he’s been around since the dinosaurs roamed.”

Attractive and funny. Brady sure knew how to pick them. “I had Stevenson last year,” Sam said, trying to jump back into the conversation. “He’s...he’s something else, that’s for damn sure.”

Jess smiled widely at him, eyes crinkling. God, she was gorgeous. “Yeah, you can say that again.”

Brady slapped Sam on the shoulder. “Welp, I’m gonna go see if I can get laid. You two have fun now.” With a positively lecherous grin, he vanished, leaving Sam alone with this girl he’d never met before. Great. Brady really did remind Sam of Dean sometimes.

Sam was silent for a long, awkward moment, unsure of what to say. Jess seemed to take pity on him. “You wanna grab a drink?”

“God yes,” Sam replied on a relieved exhale.

——————————

It didn’t take long for Sam and Jess to become close friends. Jess was just so sweet, and they really did have a lot in common. Sure, Jess was a biology major, but other than their differences in college courses, they both liked the same things. Jess adored everything horror, and, hey, Sam basically lived in a horror movie for the majority of his life up until then, so he was more than capable of talking lore with her. He even taught her some things, and, in turn, Jess showed him some of her favorite horror movies. He was partial to the exorcist (though the ending made him a bit sad) and John Carpenter’s The Thing (because, despite how horrifying the practical effects were, he liked taking a break from worldly spooks and taking a glimpse into the horrors that space could bring). They both really enjoyed psychology, too; Jess had apparently taken a college course of it in high school, but still chose to take extra psych courses at Stanford specifically because she’d enjoyed the class so much.

“The human brain is just so interesting!” She’d expressed during one conversation. “They way it protects itself against trauma is amazing, and I can’t believe some of the disorders that are out there.”

Sam flinched internally, nodding along at the appropriate points and pretending he didn’t have intimate knowledge on said disorders.

A few months down the line, Sam got up the nerve to ask Jess out on a date. He’d felt more than just friendly feelings towards her for a good while, it’d just taken some time to talk himself into doing something about it. Jess had, thank goodness, agreed enthusiastically, and the next Saturday they went out to a local college bar for some drinks. Sam was so damn nervous—he’d been on a few dates since the beginning of college, but never with a girl he liked this much. In response to his nerves, he tipped two shots of whisky down his throat almost immediately upon arriving to the bar. The alcohol helped loosen him up a bit, and after that they were able to talk as normal. Jess sipped at a single beer, all the while ordering more shots for Sam.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Sam asked at one point.

Jess laughed charmingly. “Maybe,” she replied. “But mostly I noticed how fidgety you were. I don’t want you to be nervous just because this is a date.” She put a hand on his thigh, smiling sweetly. “I like you a lot. Don’t be scared, please.”

For the first time, it occurred to Sam he might just be in love.

They went back to the campus after another hour, Sam stumbling slightly and Jess guiding him with a hand on his lower back. Thank god that Sam had gotten into apartment housing through the school that year, which meant he had his own room he and Jess could go to to talk more.

But, god, Sam should not have taken that many shots. He was gonna feel them tomorrow, that was for sure, and he could feel himself saying shit he didn’t necessarily want to say. Still, Jess was smiling and laughing, her eyes crinkling in that way Sam had come to associate with him doing something right, so it couldn’t be all that bad, right?

Eventually they got onto the topic of psychology again—not a surprise, considering they both had a psych test coming up. It was on disorders specifically, as that was their current unit, and Sam could feel words bubbling up in his throat.

“How would you feel if someone you loved was like that?” He asked suddenly, effectively cutting Jess off in the middle of the practice question she was reading.

She cocked her head at Sam, clearly confused. “Like...what?”

Sam bit his lip. God, he was stupid. “N—nevermind.”

“No,” Jess said, shaking her head and scooting closer to where Sam was sat on the floor. “No, c’mon. Tell me.”

Sam was silent for a good while, but a nudge from Jess spurred him on. “Alright, alright. I just meant...how would you react if you found out someone close to you had one of these. That they were…” he licked his lips, “different?”

Jess stared at him, obviously not fully comprehending where Sam was going with this. “I’d...still love them, obviously,” she said eventually. “I’d try to help them out as much as I could. I sure hope you don’t think I’m the kind of girl to just cut someone out because they have an issue.”

“No,” Sam said quickly. “Not at all.”

Jess smiled again. “Good. Anyway, where is this coming from?”

“Ah.” Sam was looking anywhere but at Jess. “It’s...it’s nothing, just forget I said anything.”

“Sam,” said Jess softly, and when Sam glanced back at her, she was even closer, leaning into his space, eyes soft and kind and god he was in love with her. “You can tell me anything, okay? What’s bothering you?”

Taking a shuddering breath, Sam nodded to himself before speaking. “I...we’re pretty sure I have one of these disorders.”

Jess blinked. “We?”

“Dr. Doepki and I,” Sam explained, voice hushed like he was in middle school whispering a secret to his best friend.

Comprehension dawned on Jess’ face. “Oh, one of the therapists here on campus? I’ve interviewed her for class before.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, uh. Yeah.”

Jess let the silence between them run about a minute before she spoke again. “So. If you’re okay with me asking...which one?”

Sam frowned. “Which one...what?” Jess giggled at him.

“Which disorder, you drunk idiot.”

Normally, being called an idiot would sting somewhat, but Sam could hear it in her tone that she didn’t really mean it. He smiled despite himself. “We’re not entirely sure, but we’re thinking...we’re thinking schizoaffective.”

Eyes going wide, Jess breathed, “Oh. Oh, so it’s pretty serious.”

Sam gave her a look. “They’re all serious, Jess.”

“Fuck, yeah.” She smacked herself lightly on the forehead. “Sorry, I know, I just—god, I sound like an asshole, don’t I?”

“Only a little,” Sam murmured.

Jess laughed again. “Right. Well, I only meant—it’s one of the less common ones, yeah?”

Sam frowned at that. “I mean...I guess? It’s not as common as, say, depression, but it’s still pretty common.”

“Cool.” Jess winced. “Or, not cool, just...good to know.” Slowly, like she didn’t want to spook him, she placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned even closer, their faces just a hair's breadth away. “That doesn’t bother me, okay Sam?” She whispered, like she knew just how much this meant. Like she knew how scared Sam was to have said it. “It’s doesn’t change anything. I still love you.” Jess looked nervous, too, and it hit Sam that maybe she just shared a secret as well.

Suddenly overcome with emotion, Sam surged forward, capturing Jess’ lips with his own. Jess, to her credit, didn’t even seem surprised, just returned the kiss. It was slow, languid, the kind of kiss that long time lovers give each other. Sam’d kissed plenty before, but it wasn’t like this. No, it was never like this.

He pulled back hesitantly, eyes fluttering open to stare at the girl in front of him. Jess had a blush high on her cheeks, and she was smiling, looking so sincerely enamoured with Sam that he thought he’d either have to cry or kiss her again. He picked the later.

——————————

Shortly after that night, Sam and Jess started going steady, and it took even less time for them to decide to move in together. Brady made fun of them, of course, telling Sam he was moving way too fast and was going to regret it, but Sam could see that Brady was secretly pleased. He probably was congratulating himself for introducing them.

The apartment they picked wasn’t much, but it was very comfortable. With a little elbow grease and their own personal touches, it was transformed into the perfect space for the both of them. The first night Sam made love to Jess in their bedroom was the best sex Sam’d ever had.

Living with Jess was a dream come true. No matter how hard a day in class or at work he had, he knew he’d be able to see the woman of his dreams by the end of the day, be able to sleep next to her and hold her and feel her breathing. He loved everything they did together, but by far his favorite was spooning her in bed, face buried in her neck so he could just breathe her in.

It was nearing the end of his time at Stanford, and Sam decided it was time for him to move on to something bigger. He applied to a law school and, to his surprise, was very quickly asked for an interview. Jess wasn’t surprised at all, but she was proud. She told him as much very often.

“I’m proud of you,” she told him as they were getting ready to go to a Halloween party. “And you’re gonna knock ‘em dead on Monday. You’re gonna get that full ride, I know it.” Sam couldn’t help his wide smile, pulling her close and kissing her.

The party was fun, sure, and he loved seeing Brady, but he still couldn’t make himself like Halloween. He couldn’t help but feel relieved when they went home, curling up together in their bed. “I love you,” he whispered in her ear, feeling her breath deeply.

“I love you, too.”

And then, like most things in Sam’s life, it all came crashing down.

Sam had always been a light sleeper, so it wasn’t that big of a surprise when he woke up to a noise from somewhere in the apartment. He wasn’t overly worried, but he kept listening, just in case. When he heard further noises—like someone was walking around in the living room—he knew thought something could be wrong. Sure, it could just be the hallucinations (it wouldn’t be the first time they’d woken him up), but it didn’t hurt to check.

He exited the bedroom, careful not to wake Jess. Silently, he slipped into the hall, padding quietly through the apartment. He stuck close to the walls, hiding against corners until he saw a silhouette coming closer to the room he was in. He only had to wait a moment before the person—or thing—was in his sights, and he lunged at it, not really expecting to grab anything.

Boy, was he surprised when he hit something solid.

Too stunned to fight immediately, Sam was easily pushed away by the intruder, who then aimed a jab at him. He ducked it, but the man wasn’t through, grabbing him by the arm and swinging him against a wall. They continued to fight, Sam surprised to find himself easily matched—perhaps even outmatched— by the assailant. They moved into the next room, the slight light from the window cutting briefly across the other’s face, giving Sam a brief glimpse. It was a man, he could tell that much. He kicked at the man, who easily ducked, and then, just after dodging a hit, Sam found himself pinned to the ground, a hand at his throat.

“Woah,” said a deep voice, “easy, tiger.” And Sam couldn’t believe it, could hardly reconcile the fact that that voice is in his apartment, now, after years, and he breathed out hard.

“Dean?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I’d put most of the first season into this chapter, but I got so caught up in Sam’s transition to college life that I wrote wayyyy more on it than expected. I hope this is okay! Also, I don’t know if you can tell by my writing, but I would die for Jess. She’s,,,,,,,,,,so good. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.   
> Again, let me know if I got anything wrong! Going mainly off of my own experience here.


	3. Pilot

“Dean?”

Sam’s older brother laughed, the sound reverberating through Sam. The younger man was dumbfounded to say the least. “You scared the crap outta me!”

Dean smirked down at him. “That’s because you’re out of practice.”

Oh, that son of a...Sam grasped Dean’s hand and deftly flipped them, effectively reversing their previous position. The thump of Dean hitting the floor was more satisfying than it had any right to be.

“Or not.” Sam tapped idly against Dean before the elder man grunted, “Get off of me.”

Sam hopped up, holding out a hand, which Dean (begrudgingly) accepted. He pulled his brother up, taking a moment to take in the sight of Dean—God it had been a long time—before he allowed himself to question why his brother would have ever broke into his apartment.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Dean was smirking again, damn him. “Well, I was looking for a beer.” He clapped both hands onto either of Sam’s shoulders, shaking his younger brother slightly before letting go once more.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam repeated, not in the mood to play any of Dean’s games.

Dean held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, okay. We gotta talk.”

Sam gave him an incredulous look. “Uh, the phone?”

“If I’d have called,” Dean began, cocking a brow, “would you have picked up?”

Sam opened his mouth, ready to retort ‘ _of course I would, you’re my big brother, you asshole_ ,’ when the lights flipped on. He looked over when he heard someone call his name. Jess.

“Jess, hey.” His words were more of a sigh than anything else. He looked between his brother and his lover, stuck briefly on what to do, before his eyes settled on Dean and he said, “Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica.”

Jess looked momentarily surprised. “Wait, your brother Dean?” A smile creeped onto her face, and Sam had a moment to remember that, oh yes, he’d talked about Dean a little. Though he’d neglected to mention that his brother was apparently big into B&E.

Dean took a small step forward. “I love the Smurfs,” he said helpfully, gesturing to Jess’ shirt. “You know, I gotta tell ya, you are... _completely_ out of my brother’s league.”

Oh god, thought Sam, because Dean was probably the most promiscuous person Sam knew, and of course he’d try to hit on Jess, Sam be damned.

Jess’ smile vanished in an instant, replaced by discomfort and slight annoyance. “Just let me put something on,” she said quickly, turning away from the two of them. Dean, being Dean, took another step forward and opened his big, stupid mouth.

“No, no, no,” he told her, awful grin plastered on his face. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Seriously.” And he did sound serious. Sam contemplated throwing him to the floor again.

Then Dean turned away from Jess, facing Sam once more. Sam was glaring at his brother, but Dean didn’t seem to notice, his eyes still glued to Jess. “Anyway,” he said, “I gotta borrow your boyfriend, here. Talk about some private family business.” He flashed Jess another smile. “But, uh, nice meeting you.”

Sam’s temper was getting the best of him. “No.” In a moment of defiance, he stepped away from his brother and towards his girlfriend, sliding an arm around Jess’ shoulders. “No,” he said again, more firmly. “Whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her.”

Dean looked momentarily nonplussed. “Okay,” he said, then straightened his shoulders, face going serious. “Um. Dad hasn’t been home in a few days.”

Sam almost rolled his eyes. “So he’s working overtime on a Miller Time shift,” he replied, old lie slipping easily past his lips. “He’ll stumble back sooner or later.”

Dean was getting frustrated, Sam could tell. The elder brother ducked his head, took a deep breath, then looked back up at Sam. “Dad’s on a hunting trip,” he tried again, firmly. “And he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

Oh. _Oh_. Sam got it now. His expression didn’t change, however; he just continued to stare straight at Dean. He felt Jess’ eyes on him. “Jess,” he’d began, eyes not moving from Dean’s, “excuse us. We have to go outside.” Jess looked about a second away from arguing, but Sam flashed her a small, pleading smile, and she shut her mouth with a click before nodding.

“Alright.”

Sam’s smile turned thankful before he turned back to his brother. “Lemme put some pants on.” He pivoted on his heel before Dean could say anything, padding to his and Jess’ bedroom with his girlfriend on his tail. Once they were both in the room, he closed the door softly, then turned, prepared to see Jess’ annoyed look.

She just looked worried, though. Worried, and a little scared. “Sam,” she began softly, taking a step towards him. “Is everything alright?”

Sam gave her a stiff smile, ruffling through his dresser to find a comfortable pair of jeans. He located one and shucked he sleep pants off before shimmying into the jeans. “Everything’s fine, Jess,” he replied, tone carefully neutral. “I’m sure Dean is just worried over nothing.”

Jess bit her lip. “Okay...but I don’t like this.” Sam’s heart hurt for her, but he knew he couldn’t tell her the truth. It was too risky. He slipped into his favorite hoodie, flashed Jess another smile, then headed back to Dean. He nodded at his brother to go and followed him out the door.

————————

Sam could hardly believe he’d allowed his brother talk him in on going on another hunt, years after he’d swore them off entirely. He was packing himself a duffle bag when Jess entered the room. She’d been making herself a cup of coffee, clearly not planning on going back to bed any time soon. She probably left the kitchen because she was getting tired of Dean hitting on her. Sam almost laughed. Almost.

“Wait, you’re taking off?” Jess asked, and her tone of voice made Sam flinch. God, he was being a really shitty boyfriend right now. “Is this about your dad?” She continued. “Is he alright?” God bless her, she sounded genuinely concerned.

“Yeah,” Sam breathed, still packing. “You know, just a little family drama.” Yeah, that didn’t even _begin_ to explain it. Sam moved over to his dresser to grab some clothes.

“You’re brother said it was some kind of hunting trip,” Jess continued, and there was a hint of something in her voice...suspicion? Sam sure hoped not, but Jess was a smart girl, so he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam replied easily, hoping he didn’t sound anything but sincere. “He’s just deer hunting up at the cabin. He’s probably got Jim, Jack, and José along with him. I’m just going to bring him back.”

Jess frowned. “What about the interview?”

“I’ll make it to the interview,” Sam assured her. “This is only for a couple days.” Sam walked to the other side of the room, Jess standing to follow him.

“Sam, I mean, please.” Jess sounded seriously worried. Sam turned to look at her, and she was still frowning. “Just stop for a second. You sure you’re okay?”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m fine,” he told her, feeling anything but.

“It’s just…” She shifted from foot to food, glancing at the floor before meeting his eyes again. “You won’t even _talk_ about your family. And now you’re taking off in the middle of the night to spend a weekend with them?” She had a point. Sam was about to defend himself when she continued. “And with Monday coming up, which is kind of a huge deal.”

“Hey.” He leveled with her, gave her a genuine smile. “Everything is going to be okay. I will be back in time, I promise.” He kissed her on the cheek tenderly. She looked at him when he pulled back, frowning.

“At least tell me where you’re going.” Her voice was small, worried. Sam sighed quietly, smiled, and told her.

————————

Loathe as Sam was to admit it, part of him felt better being out on a hunt. It was a routine he’d been used to for the majority of his life, so he supposed it wasn’t that odd that he’d been subconsciously craving the rush and adrenaline that accompanied all of the hunts he’d been on. And hey, a woman in white was a pretty good way of hopping back on the wagon. Not that he intended to stay on said wagon; no, one night of hunting would give him enough of a fix to last for the foreseeable future. Now all he wanted to do was go home and sleep next to Jess. She was all he could think about on the ride home. What the spirit had said hadn’t helped. ‘ _You will be_.’ What did that mean? Was she just assuming he’d give in, or was she implying she knew something he didn’t?

He shook his head, unlocking the door to his and Jess’ apartment. It didn’t matter. He was home, and he could put this behind him with the rest of his hunting days.

“Jess?” He closed the door behind him. “You home?” He glanced around the dark apartment, not spotting any sign of his girlfriend. In the kitchen, though, he found a plate of cookies with a note attached.

‘ _Missed you! Love you!_ ’

Sam grinned. God, he was in love. He grabbed a cookie, as well as the National Geographic placed next to it, making his way to the bedroom. He could hear the shower running, which quelled his worries about Jess’ whereabouts. He flopped down on their shared bed and closed his eyes, getting comfortable. Everything was fine.

Something wet hit his forehead. Once. Twice. Sam frowned, brow furrowing, and opened his eyes.

Jess. Jess wasn’t in the shower; Jess was on the ceiling, stomach slashed open, stuck to the ceiling by some invisible force. She was staring down at him with wide, empty eyes, mouth open in a silent scream. Sam cried out as, before his eyes, flames engulfed the woman he was planning on marrying. Distantly, over the sound of the blaze, he heard the apartment door burst open, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Jess, couldn’t stop calling out her name in horror. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, because this couldn’t be real. It just _couldn’t_. Jess was an absolute angel; why would anyone, _anything_ want to hurt her?

He felt someone grab at him and drag him off the bed. He fought against the pull (because that was Jess, the love of his life, he couldn’t just leave her), but he was weak with shock and dread, head feeling like it was filled with cotton. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his girlfriend, couldn’t reconcile the sight of her burning with the smiling face he’d seen just days previous. His skin was burning, eyes watering from the brightness and the smoke.

For a moment, he didn’t exist. For just the blink of an eye, Sam was no longer part of the world. Blackness encompassed him, and he was filled with an eerie sort of calm, numb and blind and deaf.

Then he was back. He was staring as his apartment went up in flames, as fire trucks drove up, sirens blaring. He was being shook, he realized belatedly, and looked to his right. Dean was there, staring at him eyes full of worry. “Sam,” he was saying. “Sammy. C’mon, talk to me. Say something.”

Sam swallowed hard. Tried once, twice, three times to talk before he could force any sound out of his throat. “What…” he began, voice barely a croak. “What happened?”

Dean’s lips pinched into a tight frown, and he glanced away for a moment before looking back at Sam with hard eyes. “It got her. It got Jessica.”

The bustle of firemen and concerned passerbys, the blare of sirens, it all disappeared, drowned out by a sudden roar in Sam’s ears. His heart sped up, and he stood, discarding the shock blanket that’d been placed over his shoulders. He made his way to the impala, leaving Dean behind with the officers trying to figure out what had happened. Thankfully the car was a bit aways from the scene, trunk pointed in the opposite direction, so no one even turned head when Sam popped open the trunk to survey the arsenal inside. He picked up a weapon at random—a shotgun—and got to work loading it, the methodical movements almost soothing to him. He felt Dean next to him then, and he glanced over, seeing his brother’s concerned face. All he could do was sigh and toss the shotgun back into the car. He nodded to himself, then leveled Dean with a firm stare.

”We’ve got work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. Here’s chapter three. I know it’s much shorter than the others, and it’s been a bit since I posted, and I apologize for that. My mental health has been throwing me for a loop lately, so it’s been difficult to write. I hope you understand. Still, I’m hoping to write more very soon! Until then, I hope you enjoyed my take on the pilot. Sorry again if anything is off; I believe dissociation in stressful circumstances can be pretty common with most disorders, but I am, again, mainly going off my own experience.


	4. New Hunts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for gratuitous descriptions of self harm in this chapter. Please don't read on if that will upset you. Thank you.

“God  _ damnit!”  _ Sam nearly hit the table in frustration, glaring wholeheartedly at the laptop in front of him. For nearly a week now, he’d been searching; looking for any sign, any clue as to where the thing was that killed Jess. He knew it was the same thing that killed their mom, but that was about where his knowledge ended. 

 

“Still no luck?” Dean was on one of the two beds of the motel room they’d been staying in—Sam couldn’t stand even the thought of staying in the apartment where he watched Jess burn. His brother was sprawled out, head propped up on one arm, eyes flicking from Sam to the TV and back to Sam. 

 

Sam shook his head, feeling seconds away from huffing like a tantrum-throwing child. “Nothing.” He shut his laptop resolutely, deciding to pack it up for the night. “You’d think there’d be something... _ anything.”  _ He sighed. “But no. Not a damn thing.” He stood and moved over to his own bed, flopping down on it hard enough to make the air rush out of his chest. The pillowcase was rough against his skin as he rubbed his face into it forlornly. 

 

The bed next to Sam’s shifted, which Sam took to mean Dean was looking at him fully now. “We’ll find something,” he told Sam, voice surprisingly serious and reassuring. “This sonofabitch won’t get away with what it did.”

 

Sam glanced up, half his face still smushed into the pillow. “Yeah,” he agreed on an exhale. He knew, deep down, that Dean was just saying that because he felt like it was his job to keep his younger brother looking on the bright side, but Sam really hoped he was right. After everything that’d happened—after all of the secrets he’d kept—Sam  _ owed it  _ to Jess to off the thing that’d killed her. It was his duty. Thinking about how little they had to go one made him feel hopeless, though, so he pushed his face back into the bedspread.

 

Another creak from the other bed; Dean was getting up now. Sam listened to his brother’s footsteps, heard the mini-fridge open and close and the telltale clink of bottles. “I think you need a drink.”

 

Sam grunted. He felt like all he’d been doing for the past days, aside from plunking away at his computer, was drinking away his sorrows. It always left him feeling worse off than he had before, and the fact that he wasn’t a big drinker to begin with didn’t help. “No thanks,” he replied, waving Dean’s offer away with the hand that wasn’t crushed between his body and the bed. “Not digging the idea of fending off another hangover.”

 

He could practically hear Dean’s shrug. “Suit yourself.” Despite Sam’s disinterest, a bottle was still opened, and Sam didn’t have to see to know that Dean was tucking into it. With all of the drinking Dean had been doing, Sam had began to wonder whether Dean was as stable as he acted. Frowning, Sam turned his head to peak over at his elder brother. “So, uh. Any leads on dad?”

 

Dean shot him a glance before facing the TV once more, taking another sip from his beer. “Funny you should ask.” He nodded his head over towards their father’s journal that was sat on the table. “He wrote down some coordinates—must’ve been not too long before he left.” Another look towards Sam. “Figure it’s worth checking out?”

 

Sam propped himself up on his elbows to look fully at Dean. Hell, he’d take just about anything right now to get his mind off of the dead ends they kept running into. “Yeah. Yeah, for sure.”

 

———————————————

 

Dad wasn’t at Blackwater Ridge, but they stayed for the job they found there. A wendigo, which had been a surprise to Sam and Dean both. They ganked it, of course, because that’s what they  _ did,  _ but it didn’t make Sam feel any better about their situation. No clue what killed Jess, and no sign of dad. 0 for 2. 

 

They searched a bit more, and when they—predictably—found nothing, they decided to stick to what they did best, at least for the time being; killing monsters. They made a stop in Wisconsin (Spirit), and then hopped on a plane when asked by a friend of their father’s to check out a mysterious crash (fucking  _ demons,  _ apparently). Then they made a stop in Ohio after a strange death, only to find that Bloody Mary existed. 

 

_ That  _ had been a hell of a case. Sam really should have seen something like that coming, honestly; he was feeling practically consumed by guilt over Jess, so of course they’d run into something that fed off of guilt. Of course. He hadn’t particularity wanted to focus more on the fact that he’d dreamt of terrible things happening to Jessica long before anything actually happened, but he couldn’t really ignore that now. 

 

His shoulder was swatted, and Sam jolted in the passenger seat of the impala. He and Dean had been driving for a few hours now, and he’d zoned out pretty early on, enveloped in his tumultuous thoughts. “Dude,” said Dean, cocking a brow at his brother in that concerned way of his. “You in there? I’ve been saying your name for a while now.”

 

Sam licked his lips—a nervous tick that he’d never been able to shake. “Right, sorry. We staying here?” He nodded his head in the direction of the motel they were parked in front of.

 

Dean stared at him a moment before nodding slowly. “Yeah. ‘M gonna get us a room—you grab the bags.” With that, he was gone, making his way to the front desk. Sam stared after him, head still foggy with unwanted thoughts. Eventually, he shook them away, getting out of the car to pull their bags out from the back seats. A cursory look-over told him this motel wasn’t too shabby; certainly not the worst one they’d stayed at. He was still studying the place when Dean got back, bidding Sam follow him into their room.

 

Once entered, Sam quickly excused himself to the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind him. He took a seat on the lidded toilet, staring hard at the ugly yellow wall in front of him before rummaging through his pockets to find his wallet. He fished out what he’d been looking for—a small razor pulled out of a shaving kit years ago.

 

This wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something like this. Sam’d learned a good while ago that making himself bleed was one of the few ways to properly clear his head. It was cathartic, really, watching the blood well up slowly in cuts ranging in depth. 

 

_ ‘You deserve it,’  _ she whispered to him, voice startlingly close to that of the recently-slain Bloody Mary.  _ ‘She’s gone and it’s your fault. You deserve to hurt. Hurt like you hurt everyone else.’  _

 

Sam swallowed hard, flipping the razor over and over between his thumb and pointer finger. He’d be lying to himself if he said it wasn’t usually his hallucinations that led him to self-harm. He could only hope that this method would calm him down after dealing with something  _ real,  _ too.

 

The razor was a bit dulled from years of use, but Sam was always sure to keep it clean, and it did its job just fine. Sam shucked off his pants, finding his hand to be steady when he sat back down. Good. He didn’t want to mess up and cut too deep. He moved his attention to his right thigh, where long, straight scars lined his skin. He’d always preferred his legs to anywhere else—it was always easier to hide what he’d done that way, and he especially didn’t want Dean to find out about his little therapy sessions. No way did his older brother need to know just how weak and pathetic Sam really was. No, he’d keep it a secret from Dean like he’d kept most others things from his brother. It was better that way. With a barely-there sigh, Sam brought the razor down to meet his flesh, pulling across the expanse of skin to create a shallow cut. Better to start small, he reasoned with himself. Pinpricks of red appeared, quickly growing and filling the indent completely. Not bad, but Sam wasn’t done, yet; once started, he always got this itch in his fingers to keep going, and that itch wasn’t sated easily. The next cut was deeper, layers of skin moving away to show white, virgin flesh, stinging slightly until dots of blood began to well up within the cut. These deeper ones always took longer to bleed, and Sam often found himself pressing at the edges of the gashes to help the blood along, to squeeze it out faster. He pulled back once the liquid spilled over the cut, running sluggishly down his leg before he wiped the trail up with a finger and brought it to his tongue to taste. He couldn’t say he particularity  _ enjoyed  _ the taste of his blood, but it was a reminder that he was there, physical,  _ real,  _ and that was as grounding as anything else.

 

Sam continued on for a while, losing track of how many he’d done somewhere after ten. It wasn’t until Dean began banging on the door that he stopped, startling so bad he nearly nicked himself with the corner of the razor. 

 

“Jesus, Sammy, you walking off in there? Some of us need to shower!”

 

Rolling his eyes and breathing evenly to calm his quickened heart, Sam called back, “Okay, okay, give me a second,” before standing up, grabbing a wad of toilet paper, and dabbing it against the cuts. They’d continue to bleed some, but he wanted to get the worst of it so it wouldn’t stain the inside of his jeans so bad. He pulled on his pants and flushed the bloodied paper so there’d be no evidence. Then, he moved to the sink, taking care to wash the blade and his hands thoroughly. Finally, he dried the razor off and slid it back into his wallet. Taking a steadying breath, Sam opened the bathroom door to find his brother stood in his way, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. 

 

“About time,” Dean muttered, moving to the side so Sam could get past him. Contrary to his words, though, Sam’s elder brother looked somewhat worried at the length of time Sam had been in there. Wanting to quell those worries—at least for the time being, since he  _ really  _ didn’t want the questions that said worries brought—Sam shot Dean one of his patented bitch faces before turning away fully and collapsing on the bed he deemed his own. The sound of the shower lent to his blood-induced calm, and he soon found himself lulled to sleep. 

 

———————————————

 

Jesus, Sam should  _ not  _ have cared so much about Rebecca’s email, should not have dragged them to Missouri to investigate. Not only did it end up with Dean nearly behind bars, but,  _ god,  _ the things the shapeshifter had  _ said _ …

 

_ “He’s sure got issues with you.” “Where the hell were you?” “Left me with  _ your  _ sorry ass.” _

 

Dean couldn’t really feel like that, though. Right? Of course, Sam couldn’t necessarily blame Dean if he felt a bit burdened with Sam—he’d sort of been taking care of Sam for his entire life, so it would only make sense for him to be a bit annoyed with having to do so again. But...but the idea of Dean feeling that much negativity towards him--of Dean actually spitting such harsh words in Sam’s direction--made Sam’s mouth taste sour, and his fingers twitch. Try as he might, though, Sam couldn’t shake the idea that those words really  _ did  _ represent how Dean felt about his younger brother. After all, Sam had proven himself to be a burden many times before.

 

He was laying in the stale-smelling bed of their chosen motel of the week. The sheets were scratching at the back of his thighs as he stared up at the ceiling. He could see the figure out of the corner of his eye, not moving aside from the occasional full-body figure. Shrouded in shadows, just slightly taller than Sam--the same thing that’d often appeared before Sam since he was 16. It didn’t speak, but if Sam focused hard enough, he could sense what it was trying to tell him.

 

Sam had to die soon, it said. Had to die to protect everyone else. From what, he wasn’t sure. Himself, maybe? Maybe from some unholy creature? Whatever it was, the message that the being was sending him seemed so... _ solid.  _ Unshakable. Like it was the unflinching truth, and Sam had no choice but to accept it, no matter if he wanted to or not. 

 

There was a slight buzzing in his ears, growing louder the longer Sam ignored the figure. It took him a moment to realize that he was trembling, fingers tapping out of time against the bedspread. Eventually, he nodded slowly, and the figure seemed to be sated. It didn’t leave, but the charged air around it dissipated. 

 

_ ‘Do it.’ _

 

Sam’s throat worked in an effort to wet his parched throat. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, he got to his feet, feeling around blindly until he found his pants and fetched his wallet from them. Moving dazedly, he made his way to the small bathroom. The door closed behind him with a click, and he pawed at the wall until the light turned on. He stumbled towards the tub, where he sat on its edge and flipped open his wallet, retrieving the well-loved razor from its folds for the upteenth time in the past few nights. 

 

_ ‘Do it. Do it!’ _

 

Sam felt completely disconnected from himself--like he was floating outside his body, tethered just barely to it and staring down at what his physical form was doing. He barely had any say when he felt the razor kiss his skin. Couldn’t tell how deep he was cutting. Couldn’t feel a damn thing. Everything was cotton-coated. Numb. 

 

Time passed and didn’t at the same time. He didn’t realize he’d been caught until hours--or minutes?--later, he heard a soft, startled voice.

 

“Sammy?”

 

Groggily, Sam looked up to find his brother staring at him with wide eyes. Or, more accurately, staring at his legs. Sam’s eyes moved down to see a myriad of cuts lining both thighs, deeper than he’d really intended to cut. Blood was trailing down his legs, dripping into a shallow puddle around his feet on the tiled floor. 

 

“I...I knocked,” Dean said after a moment, voice soft but so loud in the small room, echoing in Sam’s ears. “I knocked a few times. But you didn’t answer, and the door was unlocked, and I--Jesus Christ, Sam, what did you do?”

 

Sam took a shuddering breath, eyes moving sluggishly back up to Dean’s face. His older brother was pale, looking borderline horrified at the scene he’d walked into. Horrified at Sam.

 

All at once, Sam was shoved harshly back into his body, forced to face the consequences he’d wrought. Oh, god, Dean was there. Dean was there, and Sam was bleeding heavily out of self-inflicted wounds. Dean had found out.

 

“Fuck,” Sam choked out, and then he was crying; big, ugly, open sobs, whole body shaking with the effort it took. His face was a mess of snot and tears, eyes puffy, breaths punched out of him in gasps.

 

Then Dean was there next to him, crouched over Sam, hands fluttering about like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “Sammy,” he whispered, like Sam was some easily-spooked animal. “God, Sammy, why’d you do this to yourself.”

 

“Had to,” Sam hiccuped after minutes of useless fish-mouthing. “They--she--I had to.”

 

He couldn’t make himself look at Dean--couldn’t bare to see the disappointment and disgust that had to be on his brother’s face. He heard the shaky inhale Dean took, though, and could feel a firm hand on his shoulder. Sam leaned heavily against that hand without really meaning to, sobs calming ever so slightly. 

 

“You had to,” Dean repeated, clearly not understanding but not being rude. “Is...is this one of those things? Like, those voices and stuff you talked about before you left?”

 

Sam blinked rapidly, half trying to stop his tears and half out of surprise that Dean actually remembered all of that. Then again, he’d kind of thrown a huge fit over it, so he supposed it wasn’t too odd a thing to remember. “Uh. Yeah. Yeah its--that.”

 

Finally, he looked over to Dean, where he found none of the horrible, negative things he thought he would; Dean was biting his lower lip, brow furrowed, staring at Sam with concern and fear and care. It took everything Sam had to not burst into a new round of sobs. 

 

“Okay,” Dean said quietly before standing up. “Alright. We...we’ll talk about that more in a little bit. For now,” he held out a hand to his younger brother, “we need to get you cleaned up. At least one of those is gonna need some stitches.”

 

After a moment of staring, Sam nodded, taking Dean’s hand with his trembling, bloodied one, his beloved razor resting in the tub, forgotten.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Do you need another shrink or somethin’?” Dean asked, frowning. The wounds were long cleaned up, two stitched tightly, and they were both sat on Dean’s bed. Sam was staring on the floor, still not really able to look at his brother despite the fact that he could feel Dean’s eyes boring into him. He shook his head.

 

“No. No, that would just...just mess with everything else.” Finally, he glanced over at Dean, a bit nervous about what he was going to say next. “I was...was thinking about, maybe, going on some medications or something.”

 

Dean, surprisingly, didn’t immediately tell him off. His face hardened slightly, but, after a moment, he nodded. “And you don’t think that would, like, fuck with you more?”   
  
Sam shrugged. “‘Dunno. It might take awhile to find the right medication but...I don’t know. I’ve avoided it so long now, and I haven’t been getting better. Maybe it’s finally time to try it out.”

 

Another nod from Dean. “Alright. We’ll figure out how to get you some of that tomorrow.” He nudged Sam lightly. “For now--you need to actually try to get some sleep, kid.”

 

Sam snorted. “‘M not a kid. And it’s, what,” he glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table, “nearly 5 am? We should be waking up soon.”

 

Dean shrugged. “I figured we could both use a day off. Calm down some.”

 

“I--yeah, I guess.” Sam shot a hesitant smile at Dean. “Thanks.”

 

“It’s more for me than you,” Dean replied dismissively, grinning slightly. “Not everything’s about you, sasquach.”

 

“Oh, whatever.” Sam couldn’t help the chuckle that came out of his mouth. He stood then, going over to his bed and crawling in carefully as to no jostle his new stitches. Dean turned off the light before getting into his own bed.

 

The room was silent for a moment, the only noise the sound of the two breathing slowly. After a while, Dean finally spoke. “Hey, Sammy?”

  
  
“Yeah, Dean?”

  
  
A pause. “You need to start talking to me, little brother. I think that’d help out the both of us.”

 

Sam licked his lips, ignoring the shouts of  _ ‘burden!’  _ and  _ ‘useless!’,  _ nodding slowly despite the fact that Dean couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

 

He was lying though, and he had a feeling Dean knew it; he just--he couldn’t continue to put so much shit on Dean’s shoulders. Sam was a grown ass man now, and he could deal with his own issues. Thankfully, Dean didn’t say anything else, and Sam closed his eyes, ignoring the harsh whispers in favor of sleep.    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyy friends. Sorry for the copious amounts of self harm in this. I was in a really not great headspace during the few weeks I was writing this, if you couldn't tell haha. To be fair though, I felt like it was about time for the story to get more heavy. And it's only gonna get worse from here! We all know that the Winchesters only know how to suffer.   
> Anyway. Sorry if I offended or triggered anyone with this chapter; that was not my intention whatsoever. Like I say every chapter, I'm basing this heavily off of my own experiences, and I've had plenty of experience with negative coping mechanisms and what triggers them. It's 'project all of my personal issues onto my favorite characters 2k19' after all.  
> Hope y'all enjoyed this chapter. I'm already working on the next so hopefully I'll be able to update soon.


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